


Greenstock

by MostFacinorous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: M/M, background sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But when I'd been in the office earlier, turning in my dad's new contact info, I'd gotten a glimpse of paperwork with Robert Finstock's cell number on it. And I'd quickly put it in my phone. You know, just in case.<br/>In case I couldn't drive home and I wasn't feeling so great, and no one else would even think of talking to me, and I had scored tonight after all, so maybe he'd be in a good mood and…</p><p>Yeah, I was drunk, and high, and my mind was not working so great. I called him. </p><p>"What?"<br/>So direct. I love that about him.</p><p>Inspired by Saucery's Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greenstock

'They didn't always hate me, you know. I mean, you think it's pretty awful being invisible, until it gets worse. 

The rest of the school was easy enough to tick off—all you have to do is fuck with Danny, and your social career has completely ended.  
Everybody loves Danny. 

Not—I didn't mean to, okay! I wasn't trying to gay bash, I just… 

 

"Hey Danny, you got a second?" I was being overly casual to a guy I didn't talk to much, but I figured that was okay. Everybody loved Danny. There had to be a reason for it, huh?

"Not really, no." 

"Oh, um… alright. Sorry, then." I was totally ready to take the coward's way out, to just drop it and go. 

"Wait- Jeff, right? Greenberg?" Danny started talking, and my heart was in my throat and I had to swallow before I could even think about talking, and even then, all that came out was,

"Yeah?" 

"If I chat with you for a minute, will you stop with the creepy staring thing you've been doing all week?" 

I didn't realize he had been. I flushed, horrified and feeling exposed. 

"I—sorry, I was trying to get up the courage to, well, you know. Actually say anything?" 

"Let me save you a little trouble: Gay does not mean I want in your pants, or every male's pants, or any particular male's pants. I'm not going to attack anyone in the showers—and, as an extension, I am not a tool for every straight-but-questioning guy on campus's sexual experiments. Does that cover it?"

"No! I mean. I didn't—I don't want you, I mean, not that you aren't good looking or awesome or whatever I was just wondering like…" Wow could this get any more awkward.  
"What made you decide that you were, you know, gay, and stuff?"  
I'd meant to say, 'how did you know you were gay'.  
"Was there just this one guy who you wanted and then no more girls ever, or…"  
Wow, no, that was getting into dangerous territory, I didn't want to give away my secret, I just wanted some answers about this whole… mess… thing.

Danny scoffed and turned away, so I couldn't see his face.  
"Don't worry Greenberg, it's not contagious. We're not talking air born GAIDS here." He shook his head. "Aren't you late?"

I meant to let it drop, but I knew I wouldn't get a chance again, not with the way this was going, and some part of me panicked at the thought of alienating the only ally I could think of. 

"Are there any like, warning signs you give guys for if you like them?"  
Oh man, what if I was giving myself away to… but that wasn't possible right? I mean, he didn't treat me any differently, and…

"Seriously?" Danny practically yelped, and turned, smashing his fist into my face.  
I wheeled backwards, tripping over a bench and falling back against a locker. I just sat there, I didn't pursue a fight—good thing, too, because the last of the guys in the locker room would have messed me up. I hadn't realized there was still a bit of an audience. 

Danny just calmly walked away, and the straggling lacrosse players whooped and laughed as I picked myself up. 

My only saving grace was my decision not to go to the principal about it. I would have been beat up, instead of just ostracized. 

And you know—that was something I could work with. I was supposed to be focusing on school as in class, not school as in socializing. Not that it really mattered—not to anybody but me. 

See, no one seemed to expect much out of me, save me and Coach Finstock. 

He'd always push me to do better, to run further, faster, to play harder—he encouraged me, and it was… honestly, it was exactly what I needed. 

I started hearing him yelling at me in my head all the time, trying to get me to do more and better. And you know, not only did it work, but it got to be… comforting. And it wasn't always yelling, I mean, the guy is encouraging all the time. 

Plus he's got these great green eyes and just—really expressive eyebrows, which is a weird thing to be attracted to, but you know—whatever.

And then I realized how fucked I was, when he was giving a speech and I popped a boner. I had to say I was sick, and I felt like everybody had to know. But it didn't take much faking—my stomach was in knots about it. Because I was supposed to be straight, right? 

And then he took over my economics class. 

I was going to fail. I knew it immediately, instinctively. My hormones were going to kick into gear, I was going to get lost staring at his mouth and trying to focus on not getting an erection, and I was going to fail. 

Yeah, actually, suddenly my grade in Econ jumped from nearly failing to an A.  
Applying myself or some shit. 

And actually, like, everything would have been totally fine, except for lacrosse.  
Because this year, we were on a winning spree. And we had a party. 

I mean, we always party. But after the school approved, coach attended party had ended, we had a party at Tim's house.  
One with booze, and lots of it. And they had some other stuff in the basement, probably just weed. I don't know. But I had some of whatever it was. There were pills and hookas and they both were handed over without question. Because we were here to party.  
I came, because I was on the team, it was expected, but I didn't really talk to people much, because no one was really over the whole Danny thing. 

So I drank. Pretty much nonstop.  
Which was stupid, because then I knew I couldn't drive home. And I couldn't call my dad—he works nightshift, he'd be at work, and he wouldn't be able to get out, and he'd worry, and that just—it wasn't a good idea for anyone. 

But when I'd been in the office earlier, turning in my dad's new contact info, I'd gotten a glimpse of paperwork with Robert Finstock's cell number on it. And I'd quickly put it in my phone. You know, just in case.  
In case I couldn't drive home and I wasn't feeling so great, and no one else would even think of talking to me, and I had scored tonight after all, so maybe he'd be in a good mood and…

Yeah, I was drunk, and high, and my mind was not working so great. I called him. 

"What?"  
So direct. I love that about him.

"Coach? It's… It's J—it's Greenberg."

"Greenberg? How'd you get this number? What's going on?"

"I'm sorry for calling so late, coach, it's just… Do you think—I don't know anybody else and I'm drunk and I have to get home, and I don't feel so great—" I found myself shrugging, and sounding stupidly childish, so I just shut up. 

Coach sighed. 

"Yeah, alright Greenberg." I could hear him grabbing his keys. "Where are you?"  
I told him.  
Now see, funny thing about calling your teacher to a party full of underage students drinking—they have to break it up, or they could lose their job. Yeah, I didn't think about that either. 

I also didn't think about how much more that would make people hate me. I mean, first I sound like a complete ass talking to Danny about gay guys, and then I call the adults on a celebratory party. 

Not good. 

He came and found me, got me loaded into his car, buckled me in—and he smelled awesome leaning across me like that. Spicy, and like he'd probably had popcorn recently. But then he leaves, right? So I sit there helpless while coach confiscates a couple of kegs and all the hard liquor he can find, and I almost chuckle about his complete unwillingness to even think about dealing with the weed. 

Meanwhile everyone's looking at me like I'm some kind of asshole, and, yeah, I guess I really am. And they're all leaving and as they're walking away I see someone key the fuck out of my car.  
And so I'm leaning against my window feeling completely miserable, and that's how coach finds me when he gets in the car. 

"I'm not gonna say you did the right thing, Greenberg, because you shouldn't've been here in the first place." He's gruff, and lecturing me, and it's so perfect, and the next thing I know I'm running at the mouth. 

"I love you Bobby Finstock." I declare, like I'm some sort of—well I am an idiot kid. But I'm all messed up, so I don't realize that. Anyway, it just shuts him right up.  
And of course, that isn't what I want. So I keep going.  
"Coach, no one else wants me to be any better than I am, and you make me want to be better—for you. I want to be perfect for you." Well that isn't melodramatic at all, and thank goodness even high, I can tell that it's time to stop. 

"Jeff, I'm a teacher and… are you even gay? You don't want to switch pronouns on me or something do you?" 

"Coach, you d'n'even know what a pronoun is." I'm giddy and drunk now, because he hasn't tossed me out of the car, or told me he didn't love me back. 

"It's… a.. professional.. noun—whatever, it doesn't matter. You're not allowed to love me, okay? Now, you're drunk, and the right mixture and amount of alcohol can make you love anyone, but you're gonna hate your head tomorrow so make sure you rehydrate when you get home, okay?"

"Your hair is just so wild all the time. Can I touch it?"  
"Where the heck do you live anyway?" He asks, all abrupt and changing the topic, and I just stare at him and then I laugh and it turns into tears and I'm crying and why—and I'm huddled up against the car door, and he's stopping the car and I try and open the door and get out, only the seat belt is too complex for me right now, and he just grabs my shoulders and tenderly—

"Greenberg!" he shouts, "Get a hold of yourself!" And he smacked me in the back of the head, which is oddly calming and reassuring. "Now, are you homeless?" He sounds so take charge right now and I wish I could undo my belt so I could maybe jump him, except I don't think that both he and I will fit between his seat and his steering wheel. Because, yeah, this is how my brain is working right then.

It takes me a minute to sort out what he said, and then I laugh a little, though it sort of sounds like a whimper.  
"No. My keys—I lost them at the party. They might be locked in my car. I hope they're locked in my car…" 

He stared at me for a second, then sighed. 

"Get a hold of yourself, Greenberg. You can use my couch. You cannot, however, touch my hair. Or talk about being in love with me any more, got it? Good." So gruff. I like him gruff. And just a little scruffy. I just mostly like him.  
So he got us back on the road, and turned around, and only then did I notice that he'd been driving so far with literally no idea where he was headed. 

"'M I distracting you coach?" I asked, and man was I proud of myself. Smug, even. 

"Your mouth is distracting me Greenberg." I started to lick my lips, when he continued, "By which I mean shut up." 

So I pouted the rest of the drive to his place. Which I absolutely did not carefully memorize the street and house number of. At all. 

He parked in the garage and came around to help me out, moving the punching bag so I wouldn't hit my stupid face on it on the way, and he got me inside, and onto his couch. And I'm out of it, right? So I just sit there and he groans and bends down and unties my shoes, and you know, I can't help myself. I touch his hair, I smooth it back against his head, and I laugh a little as he freezes. And then his hands are around my wrists and he's looking me in the face, and he just says, "I said no."  
Like I'm the stupidest person ever, can't even understand single syllable statements. So I try to take my hands away and mutter a sorry, but he jerks them and I look back into his face, and his eyebrows are raised and his huge green eyes are really really pretty in the light from the table lamp and I just… lean in, and he puts his hand up, and so I end up with my lips against his fingers instead, so I adjust and kiss them, and he makes this… noise like I hurt him, and he pulls back and stands up really quick and I have to lean back to look at him.  
"I'm going to get you water, and turn on a movie, and you are going to go to sleep, and you are not, I repeat, NOT to come into my room for any reason. If the house is on fire, you stand outside the door and yell, you hear me?"

I just nod, because yeah, my head is feeling heavy and I'm… reasonably sure he doesn't hate me, but I'm frustrated because I have more to say and I know that right now he won't actually hear any of it—or, at least, he'll pretend not to. 

So I take the bottle he hands me without the lid on, and the nod at the two he puts on the side table, and I smile when he turns on his TV and it's already at the DVD menu for Independence day. 

He hits play, throws a blanket at me, and walks away. 

And at some point I fall asleep, I guess. 

When I wake up, it's nearly nine AM, my keys are sitting next to the water bottles, the TV is turned off, the blanket is covering me better than I could have done, and there's a text message from my dad saying that he heard I'd scored from coach, and he was proud, and that he'd see me for dinner tonight. 

And I am fucking mortified. Mortified, and sick, and I'm not sure if it's because of feelings or lingering effects from partying, but I need to find the bathroom and now.  
And so coach gets to see me being even sorrier than I had been when I was drunk and high. 

And he's so wonderful, seriously. He rubs my back and waits for me to finish, gets me a cool cloth and a can of sprite to get the taste out of my mouth.  
Helps me back to the couch.  
Sits down next to me and doesn't seem to mind when I slump over on him.  
And he notices before I do that I'm crying again, so he's awkwardly patting my shoulder while I try and apologize. 

"I'm sorry I'm such a fuck up, Coach. Thank you for helping me out. I'll make it up to you, I promise—"  
Of course it doesn't come out clean, it's full of holes for weird breathing spasms and hiccups and sniffling. 

And he's quiet for a second, and then he shoves me upright. 

"You good to drive?" Gruff again, like he wasn't just petting my back on the floor of his bathroom. I nod anyway.  
"Good. Go home, sleep it off. Get to school early on Monday. You're going to be running suicides for me for half an hour before the first bell. You got that?" 

Time alone with the coach, with all his attention on me, pushing me to get better?  
"Yes sir!" I don't bother to hide my excitement. 

"Get out of my sight kid. I see enough of you all week." He seems to feel a little safer now, a little more on solid ground. 

So of course I have to ruin it. I grab my keys, and take one of the bottles he'd left out for me the night before, and as I'm leaning halfway out the door, I turn back to close it, and throw out, "By the way—your hair is amazingly soft. Sir." And then I close it and all but run to my car, the image of his shocked face burning behind my eyes all the way home. 

Monday I show up early and run my suicides, with him calling out encouragement the whole time. 

"Faster, Greenberg, faster! Get the lead outta your shoes!" I just waved jauntily.  
"Toddlers run faster than you—have you gotten out of Diapers yet, Greenberg?"  
"Why? Did you want to borrow one sir?" I called back.  
He went silent, and then signaled for me to hit the shower, smacking the back of my head as I passed him. 

"Smart ass."  
"I love it when you talk about my ass, coach." He biffed me again, and I laughed and kept on walking. 

I knew better than to do or say anything in public, of course—and he never encouraged me, even when we were alone. But he never told me no either. 

Which I counted as a minor win. 

He showered additional attention on me, often in front of the other students, and yeah, it was his usual toughness. He gave it out to everybody. But he always made sure I got more than my fair share. My name came out of his mouth no less than five times per class. And I looked forward to it.  
I took to texting him my comebacks, sometimes, when they were particularly good. 

"Whaddya need a rolling back pack for, are you training to be an airline stewardess? Dream big, Greenberg!"  
[If that's how I get you and I into the mile high club, then absolutely.] 

I was getting bolder and bolder, and he never told me to stop. I think he enjoyed it as much as me.  
And one day after my morning runs, he followed me into the locker room, and I just dropped to my knees, and pulled open his shorts— and I mean, we hadn't even kissed yet, right? But I'd gotten pretty over my 'I'm not gay!' phase, and just dubbed myself Bobbysexual for now. Which meant that I wanted him in my mouth, and moaning, and we did it in school, and that was so stupid. There could have been cameras, we could have been caught… but it was wonderful, until he pulled out to come all over my face, and that—in porn, it's always so hot, right?  
Not so much in real life.  
It got in my eye and stung, and made it red and watery and all day I had to tell people it was pink eye. 

And Coach, damn him, he thought it was the best, funniest thing ever. Or maybe he was just in a really good mood.  
But he wouldn't let me live it down. He actually called me out for spreading an epidemic of pink eye—not that there was one.  
And later, I heard him telling someone that I sucked, and they sucked slightly less…  
It made me want to laugh, too. Felt good. 

But we both knew it definitely shouldn't happen again. Not at school, at least. 

He made a point to be extra dismissive of me, while at the same time making me sound… worthwhile. Of course I'd done the reading. Of course I was volunteering to stay after and clean up. 

Honestly, I thought—think, still do, that he wastes energy keeping it up, the whole façade of hatred. 

On the weekends, we go out sometimes. To towns that are a good drive away, so we can be together without being recognized, and spend all that time in his car or mine. We try new things together…

"No. No sushi. It's practically alive. I would spend all day tomorrow imagining little slabs of fish swimming in my stomach, no matter how hard I chew it first!"  
His favorite is the Vegas roll. 

Sometimes he threatens to suspend me, and I threaten to turn him in for statutory. It's cute. We're cute. 

And when I graduate, I get to kiss him. In front of everybody.  
And I think I want to be human to do that.  
And I mean, with him there, life's not so bad. 

So, no… I think I'll stick to not being a werewolf. Thanks anyway. ' He sat there, looking back and forth between the two guys staring at him, and felt somehow lighter for having let it all out. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Derek just stared at the Greenberg kid. He was more of a loser than anyone had suspected. And also possibly a little touched in the head—one too many impacts on the field. 

"Right. Well, good job with the essay answer on the multiple choice question. Uh, congrats on your gym supply closet of a love life, we'll just be going now."  
Stiles took Derek's elbow and steered him away. 

"Yeah, so, seriously. At least we're not that bad. From now on, I get to pick who we offer the bite to, okay? And you thought the screening process was a waste of time." He snorted as the door closed behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> So, there's a good chance you recognized some of the themes of the shit Finstock said-- if not, then you clearly have not watched enough of Orny's stand up. If you recognized it, then it definitely isn't mine.


End file.
